“Only whether financial pressure had affected him. He said the collision touched every part of his life and declined to discuss figures.”
“Good.”
Elliot slid his notebook beneath his coat.
“He expresses himself well.”
I almost disliked him again.
“He knows that.”
“Does he?”
The question stopped me.
Elliot glanced toward the break room. Noah stood inside with a decaf coffee while Owen pointed to something on the inventory board.
“He asked whether I would fix his grammar before quoting him.”
My chest tightened.
“What did you tell him?”
“That I’d be more concerned with correcting my own.”
Some of the tension eased.
“When will the piece appear?”
“Friday.”
“I want a copy before publication.”
“I can’t offer editorial approval.”
“A copy.”
He considered.
“I’ll send the final version I submit. The desk may change the headline.”
“Thank you.”
He left.
Noah remained in the break room.
Caleb had made him coffee. Owen had pushed a plate of plain butter cookies toward him—the ones no one else ate because Noah always took them while pretending he had no preference.
“How was it?” I asked.
He dipped a cookie into the coffee.
“Fine.”
“Was he pushy?”
“No.”
